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The long Road - Part 1 of 9: Ecuador

The New World I have been dreaming of making the big journey for a long time. I would do it on my own, with no more than my bike and panniers with luggage. In my dream I saw tropical forests, desolate deserts, dizzyingly high mountain ranges and wide open plains. I saw exotic cities, isolated villages and colorful markets. I wanted to confront myself with loneliness, but I wanted to meet people too. I wanted to hang out with other travelers and adventurers and I wanted to meet beautiful women, but above all, I wanted to come in contact with the villagers and townspeople of the South American societies. Opposed to the dream was the reality of everyday life. I had a good job, nice friends and a cozy little apartment. My life was supposedly finished. I could roll down the road until the very end without too many problems. But would that road actually lead me to the realization of my dreams? I wanted to feel the freedom of the road. I wanted to feel the ancient wisdom of nature and I wanted sheer adventure to run through my veins. From now on I would set course on the compass of love and wisdom. I took a important decision. I resigned and I left my circle of family, friends and colleagues to start the long cycling journey. Eight years ago I had already made a bike tour through parts of Peru, Bolivia and Chile, but this time I would take more time to explore. I had at least a year at my disposal. What would lie behind the mountains? I looked around and inspected the new world inquisitively. Quito surrounded the airport with hundreds of roads, hundreds of thousands houses and millions of people. The city covered the hills and valleys and climbed up against the surrounding slopes of the Andes. The city seemed to reach for the heaven. I was dying of curiosity to meet the people, villages, cities and landscapes of the outrageous continent. I did not have a concrete goal. The camino or the road itself was the very aim of the journey. I cycled away from the airport and entered the road that would lead to new encounters, experiences and destinations. No tropical paradise was awaiting me in Ecuador. I was welcomed by a rain shower and the thermometer showed a temperature of thirteen degrees. The purpose of today was to reach the famous market town of Otavalo. I did not cycle to the center of Quito, but instead I wriggled through the busy traffic of the suburbs. Eventually I set wheels on the Panamericana, the main road that connects the countries of the American continent. The first kilometers of the Panamericana led me eight hundred meters down. Immediately after reaching the deep valley the road twisted up. I bagan the long climb up to the cuesta, the first acquaintance with the mountains of the Andes of the journey. In more than fifty kilometers I climbed to the pass, an ascent of nearly a mile of altitude difference. The first drops of sweat fell on the Panamericana, as an offering to Mother Earth for happiness and prosperity on the camino. I reached Otavalo. After checking into the hostel it was time to visit the market. I had a mission. I strolled around to find me a warm sweater for the cold nights in the mountains and high plains. There were certainly a number of tourists but they were largely outnumbered by the local population. The Otavaleño men wore their hair in long ponytails, their head covered with white panama hats. Women were dressed in traditional colorful costumes with lavishly gold necklaces. It was crowded in the narrow streets. I was surrounded by stalls with an awful lot of ware in many, many colors. I found myself in a three-dimensional world of horizontal piles of alpaca wool sweaters and vertical scores of bags, clothing and other merchandise hanging above the narrow alleyways. It was the art to fill the limited space with as many sweaters, scarves, alpaca and bowler hats, gloves, wall hangings and ladies bags as possible. The market was a feast of colors. More than the alpaca wool clothing that was true for the paintings. They were invariably dyed in an exuberant "Otavalo" style, an Andean version of cubism with outrageous navy blue, fluorescent green and luminous violet explosions of color. The ultimate triumph of kitsch over reality. I was mesmerized by the exotic, new world around me. Presumably this world would be as familiar and mundane as an office building with important men in pinstriped suits or the chaotic bustle of winding families in an overcrowded Dutch supermarket. The market of Otavalo was not only a feast of color, but also a feast of flavor. Ecuador is the land of milk and honey. All tropical fruits were available. At the edge of the market there were little restaurants with local specialties. They served tamale, a corn pastry roller with vegetables or meat, wrapped in a banana leaf. Another favorite was the Quimbolito, a sweet version of the tamale with creamy cheese. It was not difficult to find a sweater of my liking. I bought a crimson one, in the color of my bicycle. Fully pimped to the local couleur locale of the Andes I left the market. What could go wrong now? I was ready for whatever the camino would lead me. I cycled back to the capital Quito. I took a different route this time. The highlight would not be the climb against the cuesta but the center of the earth. Or rather, the old center of the Earth. Ecuadorians had invented that there is a new center of the earth, closer to Quito and thus easier to reach. So I set course to the old, not the new, center of the Earth. All things must pass, sang George Harrison. The old center of the Earth was not the center of the Earth no more. The little restaurants gave the impression that the owners did not show up for years and customers for an even longer period of time. The stone globe that marked the center looked discarded. The interest was limited to the presence of two cozy road workers, two street dogs and a lonely cyclist. The day ended with the long climb on the Panamericana back to Quito. I was not the only one who made his way up. Heavy freight trucks meandered up the snaking road in an endless procession. Curve after curve the road led up until it leveled off in the outskirts of Quito. Rome was built on seven hills, but Quito on seventy. No small Roman hills, but sheer mountain ranges were covered with houses. I wriggled between the traffic to the center. After some searching I found a decent and affordable hotel, where I met Stan. The American was about thirty-five old, but the years had already left their mark. He had a weathered face with deep grooves. Stan told me that he had lived for two years in Ecuador in the hope to build up a steady life. Twice he tried to establish a relationship with a local beauty. Both attempts were stranded in cultural differences. Stan had an explanation: "As an American I represented a life of luxury. Whether that was the reality or not. The expectations of both Ecuadorian women were ultimately too high." He looked at me with a piercing gaze: "What am I going to do with the rest of my life? I'm just as alone as when I left the USA and I do not have a penny anymore." He looked away. "But yeah, life goes on ..." There was a silence. "Do you have the energy to start again?" I was looking for a positive turn in the conversation. Stan stared at me with disheartened eyes: "I do not want any more. I believe. A few days ago I was robbed for the second time. Once again I have lost all my possessions. I do not have energy to fight back again." Another silence fell... "But yeah, life goes on," he sighed another time. Although disheartened Stan was still very positive about Ecuador: "You should not be discouraged by my story. Ecuador is the most beautiful country I know. After two years, I'm still overwhelmed by the beauty of the landscape and the warmth and passion of its people. I am sure that a great journey is awaiting you." The Hell of the Equator After my short stay in Quito I descended to Selva Alegre, which can be translated as happy jungle. White, glistening waterfalls poured down from the emerald green mountains. The water gathered in the narrow valleys, sunken between the surrounding volcanic plateaus. There were small oases of human activity. A few whitewashed farms were scattered in the landscape, hidden between the tropical forest and the broad leaved banana trees. On the small flat sheets of land on the slopes a little corn was cultivated or there were a fewn cows grazing. Far above the undulating green sea of cloud forests towered the mighty Cotopaxi volcano. If the annual edition of the Tour of Flanders cannot start, the organization can always go to Ecuador for a challenging cobblestone race. The climb from Selva Alegre up to the Cotopaxi area is possibly the longest stretch of cobblestones in the world. Forty kilometers of perpendicular stones that guarantee maximum friction in all possible directions. Not only the cobblestones, but also the weather could make the heart of the Flandrien beat faster. Thirteen degrees and rain. The road alternately climbed and fell, but most of the time the road went up. The cobbles end up thousand meter higher than the starting point. A kind of Muur van Geraarsbergen plus. And the challenge does not end after the cobbles. A dirt road from the roughest cut climbs another five hundred meter higher to the plateau at 3,700 meter altitude. Welcome to the Hell of the Equator! The tropical forest ended abruptly. I stood on the cold, steaming páramo, a treeless plateau of tropical grasses, mosses and veins. Thousands of stones and boulders laid scattered across the barren land. Patches of fog rose up and parted. I enjoyed the silence, the beauty of the landscape, the fascinating play of light and shadow. At the very end of the plains lay the volcano. The snowcapped summit of the Cotopaxi enthroned majestically above the mists. The road was winding up endlessly through the undulating terrain. The setting sun cast golden hues on the surreal páramo landscape. It was time to find a place to stay. Near a mountain refuge I made camp. At the foot of the Cotopaxi Volcano. The long day had left its mark. My skin had an impressive earth brown color. It was a mystery what could cause the sudden dark tone of my skin. I had not seen the sun except for the last thirty minutes. Initially I thought this was the "Museeuw effect" and that my tan was caused by splashing mud from the wet cobblestones. After the shower in the refuge any remains of mud and dirt must have been washed away, but I was just as brown as before. It was dark outside when I walked back to my tent. For the first time the weather was clear. A radiant sky full of stars were spanned over the Cotopaxi and the surrounding páramo landscape. Could this finally be the end of the rainy season? Rain was pouring down with continuously high intensity as I mad the long way down from the highlands of the Cotopaxi Volcano to the village Lasso. An eerie silence fell over the alopes of the volcano. The visibility was no more than tens of meters and the sound was drowned in the impenetrable mists. Hour after hour I cycled down through the dense fog. I was glad that I cycled down over a decent dirt road and that I did not have slippery cobbles under my wheels. The long, wet descent ended in a river without a bridge. Through knee deep water I waded across. After a short climb I reached the Panamericana. Infinitely long, busy and noisy and even under these conditions dusty. But above all, a world in itself of truck drivers, road workers, welding shops and food stalls. A man's world. I did not stay long on the longest road of America. All in all, the main road of the continent does not offer the bike traveler too much. And besides, I had an excellent alternative. The Dogs of Quilotoa In Lasso I began the so-called Quilotoa Loop. I would venture into the heart of traditional Indian Ecuador on this route. For me as a bicycle traveler the region above all proved to be the land of the dogs. I read the following passage in a famous travel guide: "If you decide to visit this area with a bus tour, please bring a long stick to ward off the many dogs." The usually politically correct guide did not have any friendly words on the quadrupeds. To my horror I soon experienced that the dogs were not too people-friendly too. They awaited me in large numbers. They have challenged me and they have driven me away. In death-defying rage they threw themselves before my bike and put their teeth in my panniers. And after each repulsed attack they warned their friends for the cyclist to come. From the shows of dog whisperer Cesar I learned that you had to act calm and assertive in such situations. I am calm by nature and the Dutch office brought me loads of assertiveness, so the lessons of the dog whisperer seemed quite feasible. Until the dogs assaulted. Ferociously. Sometimes aggressive, sometimes with madness in the eyes, sometimes with friends and sometimes with a lot of friends. And sometimes with very big friends. At every corner of the road a dog was waiting for me. I first tried a balanced and calm approach. I spoke to the creatures, with a loud voice, calm, assertive and with authority. When a dog appraoched to jump distance, I was extremely assertive in marking my limits. And if it did not work out in the beautiful, spiritual way of Cesar, I withdrew to technolohical alternatives. I am a Western man after all and if everyting else fails, the technique should bring salvation. I had access over the "dog beeper". The animals would be drawn back by the highovertones, not audible for people but all the better for dogs, andthey would run away with their tails between their legs. When three huge dogs enclosed me and my calm, assertive act did not bring a hint of any visible behavioral changes, the moment was there. Eye to eye with my enemies I pulled the dog beeper from my cycling shirt and pointed it at the monsters, which were awfully close in the meantime. My heart was in my throat, but with a well-placed ultrasonic sound wave everything would certainly turn out fine. Surely. Or? Expectantly I looked at the result. To my horror that proved to be zip comma zero. In hunting formation the hellhounds surrounded me and my bike. Desperately I verified whether the batteries of the beeper still worked. The red light was reassuringly alight though. The only solution that I could come up with now, was to defeat the animals on their own terrain: by barking back. With an unearthly low roaring growl, certainly not calm, but extremely assertive. My instinctive follow-up was a new growl that was much more aggressive than assertive. The message was clear: that I was an unguided missile and that I would do something very ugly to them. Now! I finished by attacking the dogs in a furious rage. The hounds drew back in anguish. With their tails between their legs they slunk off. I had not seen the fearsome predators once again. As dominant as the dogs, so reserved was the Indian population. After passing Laguna Quilotoa, a crater lake that is filled to the very brim, I descended to Zumbahua. The mountains surrounded the village like an embrace. It was the embrace of a jealous husband, one which you cannot escape from easily. Zumbahua was an isolated micro-society, closed off from the big, bad world. I sat down on the central square to see the traditional everyday life of the Indiginous commune. The atmosphere reminded me of Kars in eastern Turkey as described by Orhan Pamuk in his book Snow. Everything seemed to happen secretly, under the surface. The residents immersed in the village entanglements. The people were spying each other continuously and conversations took place with whispering voices. Life seemed to be a cat and mouse game of hiding their own secrets and uncovering other one's secrets. It was the way to acquire social position in the commune. As an outsider, I did not found real access to the people. The detachment was perhaps the only way to exclude modernity, which is embraced so dearly in other parts of Ecuador. Flight from Paradise In Baños I had left the traditional farming communities of the Quilotoa area behind me. Baños is the most touristic village of Ecuador, at the foot of one of the most active volcanoes in the world. The Tunguruhua always vomits a little bit of fire at least. An overnight excursion to the viewpoint should deliver the burden of proof. With three Dutch young girls and literally a busload of Ecuadorian women we drove in the brightly painted open tourist bus up. All under the musical accompaniment of pumping Latino beats. The volume was turned up to a level where the speakers were completely deforming the music to quivering explosions of cracking sound. The bus shook wildly on its joints under the influence of the wildly oscillating boxes. The tour went up in smoke but it was not volcano smoke. We had not seen the fire of the volcano for a moment. In the absence of fire of the volcano the crowd was kept busy on the lookout point with poo and pee humor of the local gagmen. The boozy behavior of the Ecuadorian women provided all the more fireworks though. After a scintillating journey back, the screaming, shouting and pole dancing Ecuadorian women, the neat Dutch girls and the Lonely Cyclist were brough back neatly to the local night club. The silence of the night streets contrasted sharply with the pumping latino rhythms and the vocal eruptions of the Ecuadorian women which staggered into the discotheque. After the fire of the night the succeeding days were dominated by the element water. On my route through the rainforests of the Amazon area and the mountain ranges of the Andes, I experienced the last searing climax of the rainy season. One after another downpour swept across the mountains. Under the continuous heavy rains the little streams swelled until mighty rivers. Rainwater penetrated a way inside through my rainwear. As a sponge my skin absorbed the excess of water. The rainy season was not only highlighted by large amounts of rain, also the element of air played its role with vigour and passion. At times my bike was nearly battered by the heavy winds. Most of the time the mountains were hidden from view by the rain and clouds. At those times I retreated into my thoughts and my sensations were limited to the cold rain drops that steadily drooled down and the road that meandered into the grey sea of mist before me. But during the sporadic weather improvements a fascinating, three-dimensional world of hills, mountains and valleys opened up before me in a thousand shades of green. I was not the only cyclist on the road. On a mountain pass I met the Colombian cyclist Manuel. He said he could not be with the woman with whom he married a year ago. The long visa procedure was far from settled. Dolores had little faith in the marital fidelity of my amigo. Her accusations of infidelity seemed to derive more than anything else out of fear. She also reacted negative to the news that Manuel was undertaking a long bicycle trip through South America. Since the long European visa procedure could not be completed within a year or two, my cycling buddy did not see no harm to follow his dream. Since the trip the relationship deteriorated further. Dolores did not respond to the stories that Manuel wrote, but instead placed them all in a negative light and she intensified the accusations. How could Manuel be so idle and lallygag, while she was all alone in Spain, being unhappy. Unfortunately, fear is a bad counselor. Shortly before his departure, my friend met an old childhood love. Manuel and Felicia immediately felt close again. When Felicia told him that she cared a lot about him, Manuel answered that there was no possibility to build something up together. Despite the difficulties he wanted to give the marriage a chance. Felicia said that the most important thing was that Manuel should follow his heart and that he should be happy. "If you are happy, I am happy too," she said altruistically. How the story would end, was still shrouded in the mists of the future, but it was clear that the allegations of Dolores had a self-fulfilling character. Due to the fear exactly that happened, which she was so afraid of. I was invited to stay with a family in a mountain village. In no time a meal of rice and chicken was prepared for me. I found myself in a little paradise, far away from the major connecting roads. A place where everyone is friendly, where the atmosphere is alway fine and where all the women are beautiful. There was fresh fruit available anytime and anywhere, from tens of fruit trees in and around the village. Canaries flew by and a macaw fluttered along as well. The matriarch of the family was a middle-aged woman with a typical Indian face and an unimpeachable character. She had a dignified attitude and she wore a proud glance. And she had two daughters in the marriageable age. Karina was nineteen years old and Maria was eighteen years old. Wwith her delicate features and her large, round, milky eyes, Maria was the most beautiful of the two. While mother did the housework and made the meals, the daughters took me out for a stroll through the hills. We made small walks in the area and visited relatives in the village. I felt attracted to Maria, but I had the feeling that her feelings were much stronger. Maria overwhelmed me with attention and did everything to make me feel good. If I were fifteen or twenty years younger, she would have been the ultimate dream. But I was not a boy of twenty anymore but a man of almost forty years old. We walked to a viewpoint overlooking the green valley. We watched the sun set behind the mountain ridge in the distance. The landscape was immersed in red, orange and yellow, the colors of fire. Mary looked at me with her big round eyes. I felt that she was looking for an opportunity to express her feelings, but she did not find the occasion, perhaps because her sister was there. She found a solution to the dilemma: "If you want, you can stay longer with us. We like you a lot all of us. " I felt that the offer was not entirely open-ended. How attractive the thought of nights of South American passion were, it did not feel good to start a relationship with this young woman. I knew that I should resume my journey tomorrow morning. I had an excuse available: "You know how I liked it here with you and your mother and sister. But I have to leave tomorrow. A few days ago I made an appointment with a friend to travel together with our bike." I was referring to José, an Ecuadorian long-distance cyclist whom I met a day before. He was traveling on the bike to explore the South American continent just like me. We would ride together to Peru. The three of us walked back home, where I drew back in my bedroom. Sitting on my bed, I thought about the situation. Time was not on my side. I heard a knock on the door. It was Maria. She sat down next to me. For a moment she looked at me with her big brown eyes. Then her gaze turned inward. She glanced at the ground, suddenly very shy. She looked at me again. "I want you, Erik. I would love to travel with you and together love to be. " She looked beautiful, innocent and sincere, loving. The pale light of the bulb cast a tender, soft light on her face. I did not know whether it was her beauty or whether it was the tension of the moment, that made me gasp for breath. Never before such a beautiful woman confessed her love so bare and plain to me. I asked myself how she could fall in love with a man who was more than twice her age. Was it an adventurous life that attracted? Or was it the stability she sought in an oudere man? Whether it was the lure of a carefree life of luxury that I represented? Or the attraction of a person who lives his dream? Or was I simply the first attractive marriageable man that stepped into her life? I tried to fathom my feelings. My inner compass was turning around its axis like a wild rollercoaster: whew what is she beautiful ... no ... ooohhh this is really wrong ... but Jesus what a beauty ... I mean ... I really shoul not do this ... but how would it be ... if ... I think ... I mean ... I should just ... no! ... really ... not to ... ... but I would like to feel how ... I wish ... that ... if only ... but ... not? ... right? ... not ?? ... "Mary, listen. You are a very nice young woman. But you are too young for me. And that is the reason I do not want your love. " The next morning I left early in the morning and continued my bicycle journey as if nothing had happened. At least I tried. But she did not surrender that easy. I got a lot of phone calls and text messages the susequent days, where she asked if I would not like to come back. It took me a huge effort to resist the temptation and I had some restless nights. Like Odysseus tied himself to his ship to resist the call of the sirens, so did I cling to my bike. Which brought me through Cuenca and Loja in Macará, the Ecuadorian-Peruvian border town. Map of Ecuador